The voice rang out, bright and fresh, as soon as I arrived.
The entrance I passed through was more than a doorway—it was a great gate.
Wide enough for ten people to walk side by side without brushing shoulders.
High enough that a giant might pass beneath without needing to bow.
The strange part was this:
I clearly remembered being pushed through a small door, barely wide enough for one, forced forward by the back of a guide's hand as I left the courtroom.
Yet now I was stepping out from this colossal gate.
When I'd first opened that little door, nothing awaited me but darkness.
A total, creeping black, like velvet soaked in ink.
Then light erupted—sharp, searing—wrapping around my whole body.
I'd closed my eyes on instinct.
And when I opened them again…
I stood here.
In a place entirely unlike the courtroom of Hell or the waiting hall that had held me before.
This was Basement Level Two.
"What the—?! Just how big is that building? You can't even see where it ends!"
The first thing I saw when my eyes adjusted was a massive ash-gray building that filled the horizon like a dead god's ribcage.
It wasn't all that tall—about ten stories—but the sheer breadth of it dwarfed anything I had seen in life.
What was the largest structure built by human hands?
Even the pyramids of Egypt, in front of this gray giant, would look like toys—like toddlers standing before pro wrestlers.
The building had thousands of entrances, and each one seemed alive.
Forklifts, trucks, and people flowed in and out constantly, never slowing, never stopping.
Atop the building, gigantic pipes twisted like steel serpents, slithering upward to connect to the ceiling of Basement Level Two.
And a short distance from the building was a train station, vast enough to match the structure itself.
Each time a train pulled in, it unloaded hundreds of people, who moved with practiced rhythm—boarding, disembarking, vanishing into the flow.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
The voice answered my question before I even turned.
It was the guide, standing at the gate, greeting each person with a soft smile and a polite welcome.
She looked nothing like the cold and distant guide I'd met in the waiting hall.
Her brown bobbed hair gleamed under the ceiling lights.
She seemed just over 160 centimeters, her figure petite and perfectly balanced.
She wore a white mini skirt that shimmered at the edge of modesty, and a tight, buttoned white blouse that hugged her form with care.
She was that rare mix of cute and sexy, the kind that made men forget to breathe.
And every time she spoke, her smile curled like a puppy's—bright, disarming, dangerous.
"That building you're staring at? That's the factory where you'll be working, Eric."
I blinked.
Something in her voice made it sound like she was inviting me into a fairytale.
A dark one.
"What kind of factory needs to be that insanely big?"
"That's the main factory of Hell," she answered sweetly.
"Everything in Hell is made there.
Vehicles like cars and trains. Electronics—TVs, washing machines, air conditioners, refrigerators.
Even food and alcohol for Hell's citizens.
The clothes you're wearing right now, disposable cups, spoons… Everything is made in that one factory."
"Everything? From cars down to spoons? You're telling me this one building replaces every factory I knew when I was alive?"
"That's right. You could say that."
"No wonder it's endless..."
My eyes drifted back up to the ceiling.
"And those pipes—those giant things connecting the rooftop to the ceiling—what are those?"
She laughed, a sound too sweet for a place called Hell.
"Oh, those aren't just pipes. They're called bridges."
"Most of them act like chimneys. Since we're underground and completely sealed in, we can't vent smoke into open air.
So the bridges carry emissions up to the ceiling.
From there, the smoke is filtered and transformed into oxygen before it's distributed back across the lower levels."
"Some of the bridges," she added, "are used as cargo elevators.
They send finished products straight to Basement Level One."
"So you filter smoke into oxygen… That's some serious science.
I guess Hell's full of genius engineers, huh?"
Then another thought struck me.
A strange, impossible thought.
"Wait. TVs? Fridges? You're telling me those exist in Hell?"
I stared at her, barely believing what I'd heard.
Everything I'd been told, everything I'd imagined about Hell—it all cracked.
I'd always pictured demons and pitchforks.
Naked souls skewered and screaming.
Blood rivers, boiling cauldrons, skin being flayed in endless agony.
Hell wasn't supposed to have TVs and beer.
"Yes," she said calmly.
"People live here. And people need things to live.
Aside from a few spatial limitations—no planes, no satellites, no skyscrapers—almost everything from life exists here too.
Just like before, people work at factories, hang out with coworkers, share drinks… all the little things they used to do while alive."
Her words struck something primal in me.
"Wait… does that mean I can actually watch TV, drink, and, uh… sleep with women too?"
There was a pause.
Then she nodded, slowly, her cheeks touched by a hint of red.
"Of course. Once your shift ends, you can drink, watch TV in your dorm… even have sex—if it's with someone you love.
But know this: sexual assault and harassment are considered the worst crimes in Hell.
They're punished harshly.
But as for consensual relationships? No one will interfere."
She hesitated while saying the word "sex," a shy flicker passing through her face,
but she spoke clearly—every syllable precise, every answer deliberate.
And somehow, that only made her cuter.
Jesus… What kind of Hell is this?
Work, eat, watch TV, drink, even sleep with beautiful women?
That's not Hell.
That's… better than life ever was.
Back when I was alive, all I did was work my ass off, pinch every penny, skip drinks, skip sleep, skip love.
Even with a girlfriend, sex was a luxury we couldn't always afford.
But here?
Here, I could have it all.
This wasn't Hell.
This was paradise in disguise.
And the women…
Every single one I'd seen since arriving looked like they'd stepped off a movie screen.
If I played my cards right…
If I could just charm one of them—maybe even the guide walking ahead of me, with her cute little skirt and swaying hips—
Maybe I could have that life.
Maybe I could live here.
For a hundred years. A thousand.
I imagined it so easily.
Finishing a shift at the factory.
Heading back to a cool dorm room, air conditioner humming.
A cold beer in one hand.
My favorite movie playing.
And beside me… a beautiful woman, resting her head on my shoulder.
Warm, soft, close.
The thought made me smile without realizing.
Too wide.
Too satisfied.
She caught the look and tilted her head.
A little wary.
But she continued speaking, as if nothing was out of place.
"If you don't have any more questions, Eric, I'll take you to the presentation room.
There, you'll learn about your job, your living quarters, and the things you'll need to be careful about during your time here.
Please, follow me."
"Yes, ma'am!"
And as I followed her, eyes drifting to the way her mini skirt danced with each step,
a single, wicked thought nestled into my mind:
Someday… maybe that sweet little ass will be mine.